"How does that happen?" demanded the principal. "This is game time."
"He declined to join in the competition, sir."
"I see. Thank you."
I felt a hot flush of embarrassment. My son non-competitive? That seemed impossible. He must be ill. It was an insulting accusation.
The principal flicked on the wall visa-screen. It showed a lean, rather formally-attired man seated on a lounge in the anteroom, next to a uniformed policeman.
"Masefield? I believe it would expedite matters if you would find Edmund Sponsor in the dormitory and bring him here. Would you do that, please?"
Masefield nodded and the screen darkened. The principal turned to us.
"This incident on the playground which you just witnessed may perhaps spare us all an overly long explanation. Mr. Sponsor, I have been in touch with your wife from time to time, and I assume she has kept you informed on your boy's progress. Or should we say, lack of progress?"
I felt a sense of numb shock. Celia had told me nothing. I managed to control my outward signs of surprise. "Yes, she has," I said calmly, crossing my legs. "But of course we have a fiercely competitive line, and I haven't been able to follow the situation as well as one might wish.
"Would you tell me, in brief, what it all amounts to, and what you suggest as a remedy? Both Mrs. Sponsor and I are willing and eager to cooperate."